


Kitsch

by RacheTanz



Category: Sam & Max
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mutual Pining that sorta seems like one-sided pining, alcohol mention, by gays for gays, fizzball!, just generally a bunch of lighthearted fun, nobody drinks it but like its there so if thatd bother you. yknow, reference to season 3 in passing, takes place kiiiinda right before the cartoon ?, written mostly from Sam's perspective, yknow that sort-of throwaway gag from the comics? that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-02 12:55:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18811324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RacheTanz/pseuds/RacheTanz
Summary: Sam and Max are given a day off to do whatever they like--you know, as if they don't already do that, always. Of course, even on a day off, their lives are far from boring. A day without a case is a day for childish antics!





	Kitsch

**Author's Note:**

> im bad at titling things. also, technically Fizzball isn't played quite like how I describe--you're not supposed to throw it real hard--but w/e my excuse is theyre overexcited  
> i wrote this to de-stress so it's not like top-notch-quality but i hope it's enjoyable nonetheless !

“Hey, Sam.” Max starts, sitting upside-down on the couch with one leg propped on the arm rest, the other sticking straight up. His ears lay on the floor like grotesque shoelaces, one of the few times they aren’t stuck in a stiff, straight line.

The dog glances over from the shelf of knicknacks he’s organizing. They’ve been given a day off, and he’s using it to his advantage—lounging around in his bathrobe and pajamas the whole day, doing whateverthehell he can think of to pass the time. “Hey, what?”

“What are we gonna do whenever you find a girlfriend?” He asks, completely out of left field, and Sam nearly drops the bobble-headed lizard he had been holding.

“ _What?”_   He turns to face Max, baffled.

The lagomorph turns his head to look properly at Sam, gesturing vaguely with one hand (the other is preoccupied with holding a bag of chips). “Well, I mean, we own a suburban house now, but if you got a girlfriend, you’d get married and move in with _her_ , so…” For a brief second, he’d sounded almost disdainful, but maybe Sam is imagining things, “What would we do with the house?”

Sam hesitates. He hadn’t really addressed _why_ he was fine with their arrangement-of-sorts, so of course Max would assume that would be an eventuality. And sure, _maybe_ it was, but increasingly it seemed far less likely—and far less desirable, in Sam’s eyes. “Why don’t we… cross that bridge when we come to it, little buddy.” He turns back around, very keen to dodge this question. Max hadn’t seemed to understand the permanence of the house, anyways, even though the paperwork for it had been different from the paperwork for rented apartments (not that either of them filled it out, they just looked at it briefly before using it for a paper-airplane-throwing contest). It had felt very ironically symbolic to Sam; the permanence of something that he didn’t have the guts to move beyond _just best friends,_ something that could easily fall apart with Max never knowing how he felt. So he dodged the question—he dodged **any** question that could ever even **potentially** point to the mounting emotions he’s been trying to hide for well over a year now.

And Max lets him dodge it, as he always does, whether he’s aware that’s what he’s doing or not. “Alright, Sam.” He turns his focus back to the television, seemingly placated, and Sam goes back to putting knicknacks on the shelf. Max hadn’t been too keen on unpacking their things, too easily bored, but that was alright; Sam found organizing and arranging things rather relaxing in moderation, so every now and then he would unwind by unpacking some of their stuff. They didn’t have much anymore, but they also didn’t have a lot of downtime, either.

The dog finds himself humming quietly as he works, turning every trinket over in his hands to regard it fondly, remembering its story—often vaguely, sometimes incorrectly—before setting it into a spot on the shelf. He isn’t aware that his partner has stopped watching the television and is, instead, watching him with a small smile on his face. As much as Max enjoys the pandemonium of their usual lives, he’s grown to appreciate these little moments just as much, particularly Sam’s often-embarrassing but ultimately endearing musical endeavors. Something about the fact that he’s the only person who really gets to experience that is… nice. It gives him a sort of giddy, egotistical happiness to know that. Makes him feel special. He pulls another chip out of the bag and holds it up, amusing himself with comparing its shape to Sam’s, having nothing better to do with his time.

Sam runs out of knicknacks eventually, fortunately simultaneously running out of shelf space, and steps back a half-pace to admire his work, hands on his hips. “Whaddaya think of that, Max?” He asks without turning around.

“Looks nice,” answers Max, who is not looking at the shelves at all.

Sam turns to look at him, smiling cheerfully, and wipes some dust off his hands and onto his robe. “Say, anything good on TV?”

“I dunno, I wasn’t paying attention.” He admits, shrugging and shoving another chip in his mouth.

“Well, scoot over,” Sam approaches and Max obliges, rolling to one side without even sitting up. He would’ve just fallen right off the couch if Sam hadn’t grabbed his foot and tugged him back up, entirely without paying attention to him, eyes already fixed to the TV. The dog reclines, resting one slippered foot on his thigh and scratching his chin lazily; Max shuffles a bit, tired of the blood draining from his feet into his watermelon-shaped head, and flops into a more upright sitting position, spilling a few chips on his way there. He picks them up off the filthy couch and eats all of them anyways—although, Sam does steal one when he thinks Max isn’t paying attention, but he doesn’t mind.

Daytime television is somehow more boring than either of them remember, but they haven’t unpacked any of their movies yet so unless either of them stops being lazy, it’s what they’re stuck with. Sam starts nodding off, even as Max flips through channels, lazily at first, then faster, frustration mounting as he slowly begins to realize that none of the channels they get are running anything of even the smallest amount of value to it—not even something so bad they can watch it out of some masochistic desire to share its disappointment with each other. The dog is just about snoring when Max lets out a frustrated groan and chucks the remote onto the floor. The thump spooks Sam back into relative wakefulness as he blinks and looks around, a little perplexed.

“There’s nothing good on,” Max gripes, drawing his partner’s attention. “Not even any _Wheel of Fortune_ reruns! None that we don’t already have memorized, anyways.”

Sam frowns, thinking for a moment; he then snaps his fingers, perking up. “Hey, I got an idea!”

“Did it hurt?” Max grins at him.

Ignoring the lagomorph, Sam gets up off the couch, turning to look at him. “You know what we haven’t done yet?”

“That’s a broad question, Sam, and you might not like some of the answers.” He tips his head, smirking devilishly.

And again Sam ignores him in favor of saying, in a tone brighter than the sun itself, “Fizzball! We have a **_back yard_** now, Max! And _suburban_ _neighbors_ to piss off!”

Max cheers up immensely, springing to his feet on the couch, which puts him almost eye-to-eye with Sam. Eye-to-nose, really. “Oh boy!” He cheers.

“You wait here while I throw on a shirt so we can go buy some horrible cheap beer.” Sam trots out of the room as his partner hops off the couch.

“You should probably put on some pants, too, while you’re at it,” the lagomorph quips, earning a snort from the dog. In a remarkable turnaround of less than five minutes, Sam comes back out, buttoning up a lavender shirt that doesn’t entirely match with his fur, but doesn’t really clash either, occupying a confusing, middling grey area of fashion, like a lot of Sam’s clothing. Max is pacing around the room, aimlessly staring around, having entirely forgotten what they were going to do until Sam came back into the room; now that Sam is here again his excitement returns, renewed, and he bounces up to him. “Let’s go! Let’s go!” He grabs hold of the cuff of the shirt, tugging on it.

Sam beams down at him, thoroughly amused. “It’s cute when you get so excited you can’t help but wrinkle the hell out of my shirt-cuff, Max. Now let it go.” The rabbit-y thing obliges, prancing to the door with his partner in tow. Kicking open the front door, he practically skips to the car, nearly leaping into the driver’s seat before Sam snags him by the neck and chucks him into the passenger seat, climbing into the driver’s side himself. Max doesn’t even protest, just scrabbles around for a moment to sit up properly as Sam puts the key in the ignition. They back out of their front yard, smacking into the fence they already decimated on their way in last night, then floor it down the road. One short and only somewhat-lethal car ride later, they screech to a stop in front of a grocery-and-liquor store, parking neatly despite the skidmarks, then the duo hop out, setting their sights eagerly on the store. They haven’t been here before—new neighborhood and all that—so they can hardly wait to see what’s in there. The poor customers and employees have no clue what’s about to hit them (though, hopefully not literally). “Step lively, little buddy! If we dawdle too much we’ll end up with a bunch of crap we don’t need. Again.”

“You say that like we **don’t** go through snack food at an alarming rate, Sam.” Max responds. “Besides, everything we like expires long after we’ll be dead!”

“You have a point there, but I don’t want us to run out of pantry space just yet. Who knows what snack food we’ll find in the future that we _actually_ want?” The automatic door slides open with a quiet groan, and they take a moment to survey the sterile, well-lit interior. “Ooh. _This_ is an unusual sight.”

“I guess these suburban grocery stores are just as alarmingly clean and well-kept as the neighborhoods,” Max notes with distaste, looking around.

“I’m sure our mere presence will end up changing that.” Sam says confidently, striding forward as if he has a single clue where he needs to go. Max plods along behind him, full faith in his partner’s knack for wandering his way to where they’re most needed, and he does his best to keep his hands to himself despite his growing fascination with the myriad strange new products this store is shilling. Or, _attempting_ to shill. There aren’t a whole lot of people in here.

“Hey, Sam, I don’t think I’ve seen **that** particular kind of sugar-frosted chocolate ‘cereal’ before,” Max begins, but Sam plunks one big paw on his partner’s head to restrain him.

“ **No** , Max.” He says sternly. “Maybe once we’ve eaten all the _other_ chocolate-covered cereals we already have.” And Max falls quiet again, gazing wistfully at the cereal aisle as they pass.

They reach the alcohol aisle with little fanfare, and find it surprisingly sparse. Well, surprising for them, but not too surprising considering where they are; regardless, they find the terrible bargain-bin canned beer they’re after, and grab a ludicrous amount. Max stumbles along behind Sam, unable to see over the boxes he’s holding. “Hey, Sam, do you remember if we still have our old baseball bat? Or did it catch on fire or something?”

“No idea,” Sam answers as he joins a line of other customers, “but we could always just yank one of the gutters off the house, and put it back when we’re done.” Max bonks into him then stumbles back, barely not dropping the beer (which would have been a very fun catastrophe), and Sam jolts, startled by it. “ _Careful_ , little buddy.”

“When am I ever?” Max quips with a grin, tilting his head back in an attempt to peer at Sam’s face around the boxes.

“Good point.” The dog replies with a smile of his own, turning his focus back around. The line shuffles forward, and he sets the beer down on the little conveyor belt before turning to help Max, who isn’t quite tall enough to reach.

The customer who’d been ahead of them in line then decides to pull a gun out of god-only-knows-where, the duo weren’t paying attention, and snarls to the cashier, “This is a stick-up—”

“No, it isn’t,” Sam interrupts, socking the guy right in the jaw. He falls immediately, dropping the gun. “Cuff him, Max. We’ll take care of him on the way out.”

The grocery store clerk barely even looks surprised, glancing from the knocked-out idiot to the two idiots buying almost more beer than they can carry, then picking up the first box. “Can I see some I.D., sir?” He asks tiredly, and Sam blinks, remembering that when you actually pay for things, that’s what you need to do. Max ambles over to the criminal and withdraws a pair of handcuffs from none-of-your-damn-business, cuffing the goon. Sam fumbles around in his pockets for his wallet, pushing past a lot of other nonsense to find it. There was still a bullet lodged in it from a very unfortunate incident earlier that week that had scared Max half to death. He takes the wallet out and shakes it, dislodging the bullet, then fishes around in it to take out their IDs. “I don’t think I can sell you this if you have a kid with you.”

“He’s not a kid.” Sam replies, confused slightly. Lucky for the cashier, Max is too fixated on trying to tie the knocked-out idiot’s arms in a knot to have heard that.

The cashier takes the I.D.s and stares at them for a moment before shrugging and handing them back. “Why doesn’t he carry his own I.D. then?”

“He doesn’t have pockets. Well, none that you want to know about.” The dog puts away their I.D.s again.

“I’m sorry I asked.” The clerk grimaces, then continues ringing up their purchase. Max is busy stomping lightly on the would-be robber’s face, giggling gleefully.

“Most people are.” Sam looks down at Max. “Try not to let him bleed on the floor, little buddy.”

Carrying the guy _and_ all the beer ends up being a bit of a hassle, so they decide to just handcuff him to one of the poles outside the store that’s meant to keep furious suburban mothers from railing their car straight into the storefront, and leaving him there. Eventually someone will tell the vocational police that the guy’s there, so—not their problem anymore. They load up the DeSoto as best they can, and then Sam prevents Max from trying to drink a can for “just a taste” that Sam knows would be both disgusting and a bad idea. Last thing he needs is for his partner to spit gross cheap booze all over the car’s interior, much as he insists he’d aim out the window “if he had to, anyways.”

 

* * *

 

“Ready?” Sam yells from across the yard, shaking a can in his hand. It’s been a long, long while since they had enough downtime and cheap alcohol to play this game, given that neither of them really likes drinking the stuff and their schedule was so very busy, and they’re both very eager to do this. Both have piles of cans at their feet, the sun is shining brightly, and the wind is negligible. Sam’s wearing a very old stained tank top with a few moth-holes in it—an article of clothing that looked like it maybe came from his college days, given its relative tightness—and an old pair of shorts he had completely forgotten he owned. He didn’t take off his hat, though, and Max hadn’t bothered to don any kind of gear, of course. Their pristine yard (pristine not by their doing, but by previous tenants’) is blissfully unaware that it’s about to be filled with shrapnel and soaked with enough alcohol to kill it.

Max grins, hefting the bat (turns out it had not caught on fire after all). “Ready! Let ’er rip, Sam!”

The dog wheels back, then chucks the can as hard as he can. Max swings with an equal amount of vigor, and the can explodes, the top spinning high into the sky and its liquid contents splattering all over the yard, soaking Max immediately. Sam whistles appreciatively as the lid lands in a bush. “Nice one!”

“Do it again! Do it again!” The lagomorph bounces from foot to foot, waving the bat with his usual manic excitement. Sam smiles warmly, picking up and shaking another can. Max settles into his baseball stance, bat lifted, eyes fixed to the can; Sam pitches again and it arcs beautifully through the sky before being smashed just like the last one. Ten more cans perish in the same way, until Max’s hands are a little too slippery and the bat goes flying, too.

Sam dodges it, luckily, laughing. “Guess that makes it _my_ turn, then.” Picking it up off the ground, he wipes it off a little with his arm, then twirls it. Max picks up a can by his feet, shaking it vigorously, then flinging it like a hand-grenade right at Sam. The dog springs to one side, well aware of Max’s seemingly-unintentional tendency for poor aim, swinging the bat and smacking a home run out of that can. Max whoops, hopping up and down eagerly, and Sam watches the twisted aluminum sail onto the roof proudly. The next few cans soar much the same way—he’s trying to hit them into the chimney, just to see if he can, but can’t quite seem to get enough height—before he wipes his brow and chucks the bat back to Max.

They trade back and forth like this until they’re both out of cans and out of breath. The sun is starting to go down; not quite sunset yet but more orange than before, sitting behind Sam rather than directly above them both. The dog pants, lifting his shirt for a moment to wipe off his face with it, and Max grins, stepping forward a bit to close the distance between them, careful not to step on any twisted can-bits. “That was fun!” He chirps, and Sam lets go of the shirt, letting it fall back down.

“Now we both smell like a bar rag.” Sam wrinkles his nose, but he’s still grinning.

“First one to the shower doesn’t have to use the kitchen sink!” Max yells, chucking the bat to the ground and dashing towards the house.

“Hey, no fair!” Sam breaks into a sprint after him.”You’re the only one of the two of us who can actually _fit_ in the sink!”

“That’ll just make it funnie—Gak!” Max chokes as Sam grabs him by the neck with one hand, quickly chucking him over his shoulder, then slipping inside and shutting the backdoor, locking it so the lagomorph will have to go all the way around to get in—or break a window, depending on how dedicated he is. Sam pauses for a second to take off his hat and wring it out over the welcome mat before sprinting for the bathroom. Naturally he reaches the bathroom before Max, shutting the door and locking it to hear the satisfying sound of his partner smacking face-first into it. “No fair, you _cheated_ , Sam!” Max yells through the door, earning a chuckle from Sam.

“Did not! Throwing people is _fair game_ , and you know it!” He turns on the shower, drowning out the sound of Max griping more on the other side. A particular fun wrinkle to this is that if Max really does want to use the kitchen sink, he’ll have to wash a few dishes, too. They’d attempted to cook just the night before, so it wouldn’t be as bad as their last place’s dirty dishes (which fermented and gained their own fascinating ecosystem), but the whatever-it-was that Max tried to make had turned into some sort of tar on one of the pans. _That_ would be hell to scrape off.

A little while later, the dog saunters proudly out of the bathroom, doing up the last button on his shirt. He peers around, not seeing Max in the hall, then walks past the living room, pausing at the door to peer in—no lagomorphs there either—and then heading for the kitchen. Sink full of dirty dishes and no Max. He starts to get a kind of anxious bad feeling. “Max? Where are ya, little buddy?” He looks around, checking the fridge and freezer. No rabbit-y things hiding amongst the frozen waffles. Also, they should throw out that head of lettuce before it becomes too much goopier. He steps out the back door again, wondering if his partner was messing around with the shredded remains of the cans. The second he leans out into their backyard, he’s blasted with a burst of water; yelping, he jumps back inside, then hears a familiar peal of maniacal laughter.

“Gotcha!” The water follows him as the culprit—Max—steps forward, pointing the garden hose into their home. Sam growls playfully and snatches the hose from his partner, quickly turning it on the lagomorph even as he tries to run away, still cackling. He presses his thumb down on the opening, angling it to bean his partner right in the back of the head, water fanning out and making it much harder for him to avoid. “Augh, not the ears!” Max protests.

“You’ll have to run faster, little buddy,” Sam pants, keeping pretty even pace with his partner. It’s not easy to run when you’re laughing and already tired, so for once, they’re evenly matched in speed. It’s only once Max trips and just stays flopped on the ground, equal parts wheezing and giggling, that Sam tosses the hose to one side (damn the water bill, they never paid anyways) and helps him up, trying to stop laughing. He hauls the lagomorph to his feet, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder, and for a moment they just stand there, both soaked in tap-water of questionable quality, snickering in their backyard full of aluminum shrapnel that now reeks of beer. Sam is the first one to break the silence with, “You’ve got grass stains all over your fur, bullethead.”

“Oh well, we’ll just soak me in bleach or something.” He half-shrugs, not enough to knock Sam’s hand off his shoulder. “Throw me in with the white laundry!”

“I know how much you like the way the washing machine spins around, Max, but last time we did that you threw up suds for hours,” Sam replies distastefully, finally withdrawing his hand as if having just realized it was still there, “so we’re not doing _that_ again.”

“Aw, come on, Sam!”

“No, Max. It was disgusting.”

Max kicks one foot on the ground. “It was only bad when the bubbles started coming out of my nose.”

Sam shudders. “It was bad **before** that, but yeah, _that_ was awful.”

Max looks up at him. “I’m hungry. Let’s go get takeout and people-watch!”

“Good idea,” Sam replies, walking to the source of their garden hose to turn it off. “I think the one Chinese takeout place we haven’t been banned from yet is still open, and we can park outside that really sketchy park to watch the strange and unusual night ‘wildlife’ there.”

“Ooh, sounds like fun! Can I drive?” Max bounces over to the door and yanks it open, looking over his shoulder at his partner.

“I’d say _over my dead body_ but I’m a little worried about you taking that literally.” Sam answers with a grin. The back door bangs shut behind him and he grabs hold of Max before he can race off into the house, wringing him out before dropping him unceremoniously and wringing his sleeves out too. They don’t need the whole house to smell even more like cheap beer.

 

* * *

 

Sam shifts, putting his feet up on the dashboard, and pops open his box of chow mein, tearing the chopstick package open with his teeth. The sun is setting now, nearly gone, and they eat in a comfortable silence, watching people wandering around to enjoy the sunset. It’d be a beautiful moment if they both weren’t making gross slurping noises as they nearly inhale their takeout, starving after their shenanigans that day. They don’t speak other than a few errant snarky comments about the passers-by (and the mild insults hurled when they wrestle for the last egg roll), until the food is gone and they’re relaxing, pleasantly full. Max starts picking at his teeth, as he usually does, and Sam looks to his left, staring down the street curiously. He’s not looking at anything in particular, just tired of staring straight ahead. Despite the shower, he still smell vaguely of cheap alcohol, and if he weren’t a Freelance Police officer he’d worry about what would happen were he to get pulled over, but even the newbie vocational police in New York know better than to even try to pull them over.

“Hey, Sam?” Max begins, sticking a chopstick up his nose.

Sam turns to look at him, then reaches over and pulls it out of his nose before he can accidentally lobotomize himself—assuming, that is, that he _has_ a brain to poke out—and sticks it in the bag the takeout came in to dissuade him from trying again. “Hey, what?”

“Do you think our lives’ll ever get _boring_?” He tilts his head to one side.

“Gee, I _hope_ not.” Sam replies. “I personally plan on dying rather than retiring.”

“Me too,” Max grins, “You’re not allowed to die before I do, though.”

“I’ll… try my best not to, little buddy.” Ideally, Sam reasons, they’d both die at the same time. He sure wouldn’t want to be without Max—he already knows _that_ for certain—and if memory serves, he doubts the lagomorph would fare too well without him, either. He doesn’t even have a family to fall back on like Sam does.

“We better die in a _spectacular_ way, so we can make headlines one last time!” Max waves his arms in the air with a massive smile, “Maybe we can take out the Statue of Liberty in an explosion or something!”

Sam winces, remembering how the monstrous chthonic Max had ripped the head off the Statue of Liberty; repairs were still ongoing. Of course this Max wouldn’t remember that, but it must suck to have your thunder stolen by another version of yourself. “Maybe.” He mumbles, aiming to change the subject. “Say, did we ever turn the stove off yesterday after trying to cook?”

“Yeah, I think you did after I said I wanted to see if I could cook my teeth.” Max squints. “Or maybe that was our last place.”

Sam shrugs. “Oh well. If the house was gonna burn down, it probably would’ve done it already.” They lapse into a comfortable silence again, watching the sun slowly crawl down the horizon, light burning golden, then pink, then purple, and finally going out, replaced by inky dark blues. It’s only once the streetlamps buzz to life that Sam shoves the now-empty carton of takeout under the seat and turns the key in the ignition, firing up the engine again. “Ready to go home, little buddy?” He asks kindly.

Max beams. “Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

The television flickers from its poor signal, staticy and sputtering, but it’s what they’re used to, and neither complains—after all, the antenna is just a coat-hanger Sam haphazardly taped to the top. It’s not like they expect a clear signal. Old reruns of _America’s Most Painful Comedy_ don’t really require a high-definition signal, anyhow, and they’re only barely paying attention, more just enjoying some winding-down-time before bed. They finished the popcorn hours ago, and are just sleepily staring, dead-eyed, at the television, with Max perched halfway in Sam’s lap, empty popcorn bowl in his hands. He wouldn’t let go of the damn thing even though it just had about ten half-chewed kernels in it now. Sam leans back, propping his chin up with one arm resting on the arm-rest, feeling more and more tired, and his mind starts to wander, looping back to the very short conversation they’d had on this same couch earlier in the day; during the commercial break, he decides to pipe up about it.

“Max?” Sam starts, and the lagomorph looks over, one eyebrow raised. “About what you asked earlier—”

“Sam, you know I have the memory of a can of tuna,” Max admonishes.

“When you asked if I’d move out, ever,” he elaborates, and now his partner nods, recognition flaring to life in his beady little brown eyes.

“Oh, yeah, that. What about it?” He leans back a bit more on the couch, kicking his feet up.

“I don’t think that’s ever gonna happen,” Sam responds, turning his focus back to the television.

“What?” Max sounds genuinely surprised for a moment before switching to a much cheerier tone. “Don’t get down on yourself, Sam! I’m sure—”

“No,” Sam interrupts before his partner can get started on his usual cheer-Sam-up spiel. He appreciates the sentiment, but he’s not upset at all. “I mean, I don’t _want_ it to happen.”

For once, Max is silent, just staring at Sam. He’d always assumed that was Sam’s end goal in life; after all, he was the only one of the two of them who even cared about romance in any way, shape, or form.

Sam continues, still looking at the television and not his partner, which is starting to bother Max, “I like this just fine, Max. I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

That earns a raised eyebrow. “Really? Not even for ‘true love’?” Max can’t help but sound a little mocking, but Sam rolls his eyes good-naturedly.

“Not even for that.” He responds, grinning over at his partner. In a way, he’s already found true love, but he’d never say so. It doesn’t need to be said, and neither of them likes cheap, sappy sentiment like that, anyways.


End file.
